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DATE:29th of August, the 70th year after the Coronation
LOCATION: Concord Metropolis
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The downtown really was something. Restaurants everywhere, people everywhere—groups of them clustered on corners, laughing, smoking, waiting for cabs or just enjoying the night air. You wouldn't think that parts of the metropolis were a war zone. The contrast was jarring. Here, neon signs buzzed cheerfully, street vendors sold skewers and pretzels, couples walked hand-in-hand past shop windows. A dozen kilometers away, buildings were rubble and bodies were being pulled from wreckage.
I suppose they didn't really have a reason to care, did they? Crime was a daily thing and heroes were always supposed to fight it. That was the unspoken contract. Normal people went about their lives, and the powered ones handled the violence. As long as the war stayed in those neighborhoods, everyone else could pretend it didn't exist.
No matter. I did hear from some passers-by about some guy, Mordo, and how he killed a lot of heroes. The name came up in fragments as I walked past clusters of people—"Did you hear about Mordor?" "They say he raised the dead right there in the street." "Hundred heroes, maybe more." The fear in their voices was real, even if they were standing in safety.
I wondered who that was. I will probably have to face him, right?
The thought sat heavy in my chest. Another enemy. Another fight. Another obstacle between me and—what, exactly? Freedom? Peace? A fucking vacation? The endpoint kept shifting every time I reached for it.
I regretted not having Emily, but… Why do I want Emily back? The question stopped me mid-step. A man behind me nearly collided with my back, muttering something irritated as he swerved around me. I stood there on the sidewalk, people flowing past like water around a stone.
Because she guided me? That was the obvious answer. Emily had always known what to do, where to go, what the next move should be. She'd kept me alive through situations that should have killed me. Made the calls I was too fucked up to make.
Just like my other positions?
Still guided?
Still a slave?
The words tasted bitter. I'd spent my whole life following orders—from my father, from the Syndicate, now from the Legion…. from whoever happened to hold my leash at any given moment. And Emily had been different, hadn't she? She wasn't giving orders. She was just... there. Beside me. Helping.
No. This was different. This HAD to be different.
Yes, I was using her! I needed her for my own objectives. She was a useful tool! Nothing more.
The lie felt hollow even as I thought it. I tried to make myself believe it—tried to reduce her to something transactional, mechanical, safe. If she was just a tool, then losing her was just an inconvenience. A setback. That she wasn't the one using me.
Haah…
I was lying to myself and I knew it.
Fuck me…
A couple passed too close and the woman's shoulder brushed mine. She glanced back with an annoyed expression, but her boyfriend tugged her forward before she could say anything. Smart man. I wasn't in the mood for an argument, but my face probably said otherwise. The scars did that. Even half healed, I must have looked grotesque.
I started walking again, letting the crowd carry me forward. The smell of grilled meat from a street cart hit my nostrils and my stomach twisted. I felt like I was smelling burnt flesh…
I caught the smell before anything else hit me—a thick, cloying wave that invaded my nose and mouth like a living thing, turning my stomach inside out. It started sweet, almost like barbecue gone wrong, but twisted into this nauseating rot that made me gag, coating my throat with its greasy insistence.
The blood on my hand smelled even stronger than them. The blood felt wet despite drying in the air.
As if I was still on the battlefield.
This smell reminded me of that time in the desert. Why couldn't I forget it?
I felt like puking.
I felt like…
No. Stop.
I shook my head, trying to clear the spiral before it dragged me under. Focus on what's in front of you.
I instead went to that stall.
The vendor was an older man with a thick mustache and arms like tree trunks. He flipped skewers on a makeshift grill, the flames licking at chunks of meat that smelled like.
Was I imagining?
"What's with the smell?"
He looked up, eyes catching on my face for half a second before flicking away angrily.
"You have a problem?! It's Ox, What else?"
I shook my head and walked away. What a waste of time.
This stroll wasn't calming me down at all. If anything, I felt worse now than when I'd left the hotel. My thoughts were spiraling, circling the same unanswerable questions over and over. The blood on my palm had dried to a dark crust.
My throat felt dry, but my money was still in my room…
Hmmm…
I should have probably thought about that beforehand.
I could go back. Retrieve the cash. Come back out and actually buy something to drink instead of standing here like an idiot having an existential crisis on a street corner. Practical. Simple. The kind of straightforward problem-solving that didn't require me to examine why I was so fucked up.
I patted my pockets reflexively, confirming what I already knew. Empty. I'd walked out with nothing.
No. Better to keep moving.
Oh well.
A woman walked past with a bottle of water in her hand, condensation beading on the plastic. My eyes tracked it automatically. How much did water even cost here? A Zol? Two? I didn't have any money on me, but that hadn't stopped me before. I could just take it. Quick snatch, disappear into the crowd. She wouldn't even know what happened until I was three blocks away.
The old instincts.
But why bother? To steal even a puny bottle of water? I wasn't disgusted with myself, but I felt pathetic. Why did committing a crime come so easy to me? I did tell that arrogant doctor that I only behaved well because of the context, but this just felt a little… dry?
Was I really so much of a criminal to steal a bottle of water instead of returning for money?
Father always said that I was too weak to help anyone, that people like me have to depend on others… That they are useless…
Was he really wrong?
Honestly, I felt like laughing. After all, I committed all those terrible acts yet a bottle of water makes me waver?
Haah, I just didn't know anymore… What was the point?
I kept walking. The crowd thinned slightly as I moved away from the main strip of restaurants and bars. The buildings here were older, less maintained. Graffiti marked the walls—tags and symbols I didn't recognize. Gang territory, maybe. Or just bored kids with spray paint. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
A group of teenagers clustered near an alley entrance, passing a cigarette between them. They looked up as I approached, eyes narrowing. One of them—a girl with half her head shaved—said something I couldn't hear. The others laughed. Not friendly laughter.
I didn't slow down. Didn't speed up. Just kept my pace steady, my face blank. The scars probably helped. People tended not to fuck with someone who looked like they'd already been through hell and came out the other side.
They let me pass without incident.
My thoughts drifted back to Emily despite myself. Where was she now? Still in the Legion's custody? Destroyed? Was that hacker that I didn't find, Deus, possibly contracted? But I remember she started to outdo him by the last time we met.
So what if…
I stopped walking. Realized I had no idea where I was going. Just wandering aimlessly through streets I didn't know, chasing thoughts I couldn't catch. Productive. Really fucking productive.
A shop window to my left displayed rows of cheap electronics—old phones, knock-off tablets, headphones with frayed cords. The kind of place that sold broken shit to desperate people and called it a bargain. The clerk inside was watching me through the glass, one hand resting near something under the counter. Probably a weapon. Couldn't blame him.
I turned away and kept moving.
I decided to return.
The walk back was quieter. Fewer people on the streets now as the hour pushed deeper into early morning. The restaurants were closing, chairs stacked on tables, staff sweeping floors visible through plate glass windows. The laughter and chatter had thinned to occasional voices echoing off buildings.
When I returned Pamela was still asleep.
The room smelled stale. She'd shifted position slightly, now curled on her side with one arm dangling off the edge of the bed, fingers barely brushing the floor. Her breathing was still slow and heavy. There was still a while until she recovered.
Then I heard some clinking at the window. Sharp, metallic taps against the glass. A drone had come with the package from the professor.
I pulled the curtain aside. The drone hovered just beyond the glass, a sleek black bicopter with a small container magnetically attached to its undercarriage. I opened the window and the drone drifted forward, detaching the package with a soft click before pulling back and ascending silently into the pre-dawn darkness.
The equipment was certainly interesting. I opened the container on the coffee table—right next to the poisoned wine bottle—and pulled out each piece carefully. The sword came as a wooden stick, no longer than the bottle, smooth and unmarked except for a recessed button near one end. Pressing hard on the button made a thin, long blade spring out with a sharp snick sound. The blade extended to about seventy centimeters, narrow as a stiletto but perfectly straight.
At first, I was eyeing it suspiciously because it was very thin. Too thin. A blade that narrow should have snapped the first time it met resistance—bone, armor, even thick leather. But when I tested it against the edge of the table, pressing down with my full weight, the blade didn't bend or flex at all.
The metal seemed much stronger than steel. Some kind of alloy I didn't recognize, dark gray with a faint iridescent sheen when the light caught it at certain angles. The edge was sharp enough that I could feel it cutting the air when I swung it experimentally. I suppose it will work. I'll keep it under my right sleeve. There was a thin strap mechanism built into the wooden handle that would let me attach it to my forearm, concealed beneath fabric until I needed it.
I pressed the button again and the blade retracted with the same snick sound, folding back into the wooden casing. Smooth. No catch or hesitation. The professor knew his craft, I'd give him that.
The gun wasn't as interesting, but that was probably a good thing. I wouldn't want to use a mini weapon just because it was easier to conceal. It was a compact semi-automatic, maybe a .380 or 9mm, matte black finish with no identifying marks. Functional. Boring. Reliable, presumably, or the professor wouldn't have sent it.
At least he gave me a holster I could wear under my shirt. Leather, worn soft, designed to sit against the small of my back where it would be hidden by a jacket or loose clothing.
There was also that cream the professor suggested for the scars, but I didn't feel like trying it.
The last item was a box of small vials of clear liquid and a sterile syringe. The drug. I injected it immediately into the small container implanted in my abdomen, pressing the needle into the port just below my navel. Even after all those times, it still felt strange. The cold metal sliding in, the slight pressure as the mechanism accepted the vial's contents. How was I supposed to activate its release manually? By pressing the port?
Whatever.
At the bottom of the package was a a full suit and shirt seemingly tailored to my size. Blue. Of course it was blue.
The material was pretty thick. Kevlar? Some knockoff composite? Either way, my first thought wasn't protection, it was sweat. Haah. I'm going to get drenched while wearing it.
I tried it on. It felt heavy when I lifted it, but once it settled on my shoulders, it distributed the weight in a way that made me suspicious. Thick as expected, but also flexible—too flexible for something that looked like it should move like cardboard. The inner lining hugged my torso with that dry, tight pressure of new fabric, and the seams didn't pinch anywhere. Which meant it wasn't cheap.
It had extensions at the shoulders and elbows—overlapping panels that slid over each other when I moved. Same for the legs. Whoever designed it actually understood that joints need to… move. Revolutionary stuff. I raised my arms, rotated my shoulders, dropped into a squat. No tugging at the waist. No splitting sound of thread giving up on life.
I threw a few test strikes into the air. Elbow. Cross. Hook. A knee that would've cracked Pamela's ribs if she'd been awake and annoying. Then I stepped into a slow pivot, the kind you do before you take someone's balance and ruin their day. The suit followed me like it wanted to help. Like it was eager.
I think I could even do martial arts moves in this suit almost uninhibited. Which was the whole point, I guess. Not that I needed encouragement to hurt people.
Still… I stared at myself in the mirror. Blue suit. Scarred face. Dead eyes. A hero, technically. I think I still had quite a reputation to the uninformed. I looked like I'd been rebuilt by a committee that hated me.
I flexed my right forearm under the sleeve, feeling the hidden sword shift slightly against my skin. The holster pressed at my back. The port in my abdomen sat there like a second bellybutton, a reminder that even my insides were rented equipment now.
Still guided? Still a slave? The suit didn't answer. It just fit.
The sword went onto my right forearm. I rolled up my sleeve and fastened the strap mechanism. It took a few tries to get it positioned correctly—too high and it would restrict my elbow movement, too low and the handle would stick out past my wrist. Eventually I found the right spot. I rolled my sleeve back down and tested the motion. A quick flex of my wrist and the wooden handle dropped into my palm. Another press of the button and the blade extended.
Retract. Conceal. Repeat.
Good enough.
I looked again at the woman, annoyed.
She groaned softly from the bed. Still asleep, just shifting position again. Her arm had fallen back onto the mattress. She'd probably wake up in another hour or two, groggy and confused and useless.
I needed to move. Sitting here reading conspiracy theories wasn't getting me anywhere.
But I don't have Crater's location…
I might as well do something in the meantime, so I got her phone.
I spent the next few hours looking about recent news. The screen was still unlocked from when I'd checked the time earlier. I scrolled through news sites, forums, anything that might give me a sense of what was happening outside this hotel room.
It wasn't like I still had someone to inform me on what was happening.
I couldn't believe what I saw.
One of the agencies, The Singles, had truly been assaulted and obliterated by that Mordo guy, leading an organization called The Revenant Vanguard. The headlines were screaming about it—"Singles Destroyed in Coordinated Strike," "Death Toll in Hundreds," "New Threat Emerges in Concord." Attached photos showed buildings reduced to rubble, bodies lined up under white sheets, scorch marks and strange dark stains on the pavement.
The agency they decimated operated in the north-eastern part of Concord so it wasn't the territory of my Legion.
Still, I suppose it was pretty concerning.
I scrolled deeper into the article. The Singles had been a mid-tier agency—nothing like the ones at the big table, but respectable enough. Forty-some heroes on their roster, decent equipment, contracts with local businesses for protection. Now they were gone. Wiped out in less than six hours according to the timeline the news sites had pieced together.
They did come out of nowhere. No warnings. No prior activity. Just a sudden, overwhelming assault that left an entire agency wiped off the map in less than an hour.
Who even named his forces something as cringe as "The Revenant Vanguard"? Were they also undead?
The Revenant Vanguard. What kind of pretentious name was that? It sounded like something a teenager would come up with after reading too many comic books. But the results spoke for themselves. You didn't erase an entire hero agency with dramatic flair alone.
I pulled up another tab, searching for more information on Mordo himself. The results were frustratingly sparse. A few grainy photos—none clear enough to make out details. Witness descriptions that contradicted each other. "Tall." "Average height." "Wore a mask." "No mask, just scars." "His eyes glowed." "He had normal eyes." Useless.
I kept scrolling. Found a forum thread where people were speculating wildly. "Government experiment gone wrong." "Old villain from before the reformation." "Alien." "Demon." The usual conspiracy trash. But buried in the noise was something interesting—a comment from someone claiming to have been at the scene, evacuated before the worst of it hit.
"The dead weren't random. He was calling them by name. Like he knew them. Like they'd been waiting for him."
I read it twice. Then a third time.
Knew them. That implied planning. Preparation. You didn't just stumble into necromancy and start raising armies on a whim. This was coordinated. Purposeful. Which meant Mordo—whoever the fuck he actually was—had been working on this for a while. Gathering resources. Building his little death cult in the shadows while the rest of us were busy with the usual territorial pissing contests.
So was he the necromancer that brought back Damos and Biz? If not him, then who else?
No, this was too strange. Too… overt. The mastermind that Biz spoke of worked in silence. Why would he just reveal himself? If word of necromancy spreads, then the actual Inquisiton will set. Not the hero bureau. The Unified Church armed forces.
I wasn't very interested in their teaching, but at the very least I knew that they strived to reach heaven and to not fall in Hades. Overstaying your welcome on earth was one of the biggest crimes you could do. Same as committing suicide.
But… now that I think about it, what would they even do? The unified church doesn't idolize miracles, as it was based around self reflection and development, hailing human invention as foremost and supposedly the Great Saviour's power isn't even on this plane of existence anymore. Something about bringing it to heaven? So what would they do against a necromancer? Could they even fight him?
Was Mordo just arrogant?
Why show yourself? Why not send in a lieutenant instead. Was he actually one?
It just seems so simple…
My fights were never so simple. All my enemies are paranoid rats that act behind the scenes. My gut called it as a distraction.
Why show yourself? Why not send in a lieutenant instead. Was he actually one?
Whatever.
I'll go kill their leader after I recover Emily.
Right now, I don't really want to risk it.
Pamela groaned softly from the bed. I glanced over. She was still asleep, just shifting position again. Her arm had fallen back onto the mattress. She'd probably wake up in another hour or two, groggy and confused and useless.
I needed to move. Sitting here reading conspiracy theories wasn't getting me anywhere.
I also saw that Sarah was still pursuing Blazer, but they were in a different country… I scrolled past an article mentioning sightings in Anahuac wherever that was, the translation was unclear.
Was this part of her self-reflection journey? I'm not sure why she even bothers. Does she think that catching him will mean any kind of atonement? Like, for a pompous moralist like her, there is no second chance.
Delusional.
Even still, I at least don't have to deal with Blazer myself.
I'm not fast enough to fight him unless I take an extreme dose of cocaine. And even then, the enhanced reflexes and perception would only last minutes before my heart exploded or my brain hemorrhaged from the strain. Not worth it.
I wonder what my own legion was up to. I wasn't on any group chats, well I didn't even have a phone, but anyway.
For a second I expected Pamela to be in the group chats, but then I remembered that Zenik was an independent organization…
Well, not much of an organization when half their staff is dead or away.
Dammit.
I really need to find that Crater guy.
I was waiting for a call from the professor about his location. The drone delivery suggested he was still monitoring me.
Surely he has some kind of spy net or camera system inside the city. Otherwise how would he know what was happening?
That Lucas… Lucien or whatever he was named, who became the new Don… I scrolled through local news, looking for his name. There—"Lucien Paula Mosa Consolidates Power in Western District."
I'm aware that what he promised was a stretch, but he should have at least kept it believable… Online at least I don't see anything about the diminishing presence of the Combine gang.
They seem to be thriving.
There were rumors that borough councilmen were switching allegiance to them. I found a forum thread discussing it—anonymous posts claiming that three councilmen in the northern districts had taken Combine money in exchange for zoning favors and blind eyes toward trafficking routes.
There were fears that the Unified army was going to be deployed because we heroes were "losing the war".
It wouldn't surprise me. I'm actually astounded that they are still throwing out this carrot instead of stepping up.
I set Pamela's phone down and looked at the window. Dawn was starting to break, pale gray light filtering through the fog that never quite lifted in this part of the city.
Why was protecting them even the responsibility of heroes?
For that matter, why were they even keeping this city independent? Sure, Ventia was a large country, but this city didn't have much unity. A lot of the population was made up of immigrants from other parts of the kingdom. The principality itself is surrounded by the kingdom on all sides but the coast… no, even the coast is patrolled by the Kingdom's ships.
Was the whole region a gift to the Royal Governor? So why doesn't HE step up? Emily talked all about that demonic power of his and how dangerous it is, but how wasn't the power of heroes also dangerous? UltraMan could have leveled this whole city to the ground if he wanted to.
What makes the governor so dangerous? That he is seemingly immortal?
Then aren't I the same? I don't see myself destroying this city anytime soon. For that matter, even the long eared king doesn't age. How does this relate to anything?
Just because that bitch Naomi said in her notes that he was?
Because of the state in which was the factory where I fought the warrior from Stockh?
He clearly knows about demonic powers. Why don't I go and meet him?
Pamela's phone started ringing. Loud, insistent, like it had somewhere better to be than on a nightstand in a room that smelled like perfume and bad decisions.
Pamela stirred, face twisting like the headache had teeth. Her eyelids fluttered open halfway, pupils unfocused.
I didn't wait for her to fully reboot. I took the phone and answered before she could remember it belonged to her.
"Yeah?"
A pause. Then that voice—flat, mild, like he was calling to ask about the weather.
"William."
"Professor." I kept my tone even. My hand was already moving, grabbing my dress jacket off the chair. "You finally decided to talk."
"I found Crater."
That landed with the weight it was supposed to. My body tightened automatically, like my nervous system still believed in hope. Pathetic.
"Where."
"In a Combine-related warehouse," he said, unhurried. "North-eastern industrial complex."
My eyes flicked to the window. The gray light outside looked sick. Concord always did.
"The one that got ravaged earlier today," he added, like it was a fun trivia fact. "By Mordo."
Of course. Because why would anything be simple. Why would my life ever be one crisis at a time.
"You saw Mordo?" I asked.
"No."
Pamela made a small sound behind me—confused and offended, like her brain had just noticed her mouth existed.
"Who—" she started, hoarse. "Who are you talking to?"
I didn't look back. I just lifted my free hand and made a lazy shooing motion, like she was smoke and I was tired of breathing her. She blinked at me, trying to process the audacity.
I focused on the call. "How did you even find Crater?"
Silence. Not dead air—considered silence. The kind of silence someone uses when they want you to feel how little you're owed.
"Professor." I repeated, slower. "How did you see him."
"You need to go," he said, voice drifting into that bored, lecturing cadence. "Quickly. I expect him to leave within the hour."
My jaw clenched. "Answer the question."
Another pause, and I could practically hear him shrug through the phone.
"I'm busy." He sounded genuinely uninterested, like I'd asked him what his favorite color was.
"Busy doing what?"
He sighed—soft, theatrical. "William, if you want to waste time interrogating me, be my guest. Crater won't wait for you."
"I'm not wasting—"
The call cut off. Just like that. No goodbye. No click. Just absence. Was he always this kind of Diva?
I stared at the screen for a beat, anger simmering in the space where information should've been. Then I locked it and shoved it into my pocket.
Pamela pushed herself up on the bed, hair a mess, eyes narrowing. "Hey—what the hell? That's my phone."
I finally looked at her. She looked like she'd been hit by a truck made of whiskey and regret.
"Congratulations," I said, voice dry. "You're alive."
"What did you—" she swallowed, wincing, one hand going to her temple. "What did you do to me?"
I pulled on my jacket, feeling the holster settle against my back like a hand. A reminder. A leash, if you wanted to be poetic about it.
"Me?" I scoffed. "That poison was apparently mine. Shouldn't I beat you up for stealing it?"
She froze. Her mouth opened, then closed. Her eyes did that calculating thing people do when they realize they're not in control of the conversation anymore. I'm not even sure why she bothers anymore.
I grabbed the handle, ready to leave, and then the obvious problem tapped me on the shoulder: I had no support. No comms. No backup. No friendly faces in the north-eastern industrial complex—just Combine trash and whatever Mordo left behind. If something went sideways, there'd be nobody to drag my body out of the rubble.
Might as well use her as a shield if she was so resistant.
I turned back, raised my hand in a "get up" motion like I was calling a dog. "I'm going after a guy who took what's mine."
She blinked. "What—"
"Quicken your pace," I added. "We're leaving."
Pamela stared at me like I'd just told her to go drown herself for exercise. Then the sarcasm crawled up her throat, because of course it did. "Oh, am I supposed to go like this?" She gestured down at her short brand clothes—bare legs, thin fabric, the kind of outfit people wore when they thought the night would end in a cab and not a hostage situation.
"Yes."
Her eyebrows shot up. "Yes? Are you insane? Go where? You want me stumbling around outside in these shorts like some... some branded whore? I can barely stand; I don't even know what's happening. Who the hell were you even talking to? And more than that, what was with that towe-"
I punched the hardwood door.
Not hard enough to break it—just hard enough to make the whole frame shudder and the latch rattle in its housing. The impact thudded up my forearm and into my shoulder. Pain, dull and familiar. The sound was the point.
Pamela jumped like a puppet on a cut string. Her rant died mid-syllable.
I turned my head slightly, letting her see my profile, the scars catching the room's weak light. "Do I have to repeat myself?"
Her throat bobbed. She looked past me at the hallway like it might offer asylum. It didn't.
"No," she said, smaller now. "No, I—"
"Shoes."
Pamela scrambled. She bent down too fast, winced, muttered something that sounded like a curse and a prayer mixed together, and shoved her feet into her shoes with shaking hands. One lace half-tied, the other not even attempted. Good enough.
I opened the door. Cold hallway air hit my face—that pompous carpet covered by the smell of perfume… I was starting to hate it.
Pamela rushed toward me as I stepped out, clutching her phone like it was a life raft. She kept close, too close, because fear does that—it makes people orbit the thing they're afraid of if they think it's also the only thing keeping them alive.
I let her. For now.-*-*-*